Sacrifice
by SSGA
Summary: Changes do not happen overnight, especially when it comes to a person, a set of beliefs that were ingrained in you since birth, a personality. They are not without a cost either. There are always things that should be sacrificed.
1. Sacrifice I

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.

Summary: Changes do not happen overnight, especially when it comes to a person, a set of beliefs that were ingrained in you since birth, a personality. They are not without a cost either. There are always things that should be sacrificed.

**Rating: **Rated M just to be safe. I don't know where this is going.

Author note: Written for a prompt from Counterfeit God. It's set during the two month period between the training incident and Mass SOLDIER desertion. It was enjoyable for me to write, I hope it's enjoyable to read, too.

**ΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤ**

He had always desired to be different. Always.

Everything, the way he wore his hair, his outfits, his attitude, just everything was always different, even back at Banora. And he liked to keep it that way, to be different, and he was willing to pay the price. Even though it made him stick out in the crowds, even if it meant that he would never be accepted by the townspeople, or even at times his parents, even if it meant he'd wind up lonely.

He had learned to never look for support from those people. He had learned to be independent; to be reckless, to be always the first one to go head first into something those people were afraid of.

Even back then, he wasn't afraid of death.

He knew and believed that he was different. He was meant to be different, even as stupid as it might have sounded, even as stupid as it still sounds.

A faint smile touched his lips.

He could remember that back then, when he was just a kid, how the idea affected him. Maybe he was really spoiled but, he could remember that he believed that he was the luckiest kid in the world, that the world was limited to Banora, that his parents were very famous and well-known.

Of course, the time and the world proved him wrong as he grew up, learning more and more about everything.

It had been very cruel. It disappointed him at first, but then again, he didn't stop searching for differences, he didn't stop being different, at least in appearance and physics.

His hand played with auburn tresses as he leaned back against the cold tile wall, the steady drip of the leaking faucets fading in the background as he let his mind roam freely.

Coming to SOLDIER was neither something he completely regretted, nor something he completely approved of. But he knew that if he were to choose again between leaving Banora and staying there, he'd definitely choose leaving that place.

Banora was a small town. There weren't many things out there to explore, to satisfy his nature; there weren't many choices to decide from, and his freedom was limited. Though he would never deny that his parents were less caring when it came to the places he went, what he did, and when he came back home, but his father was still there to restrict him.

At Midgar, he could do almost whatever he wanted, act as he pleased, wear his hair and clothes in whatever style, and still no one would care. Yes, there were always those who stared, those who spoke in hushed tones as he passed them, following him with their eyes, but no one could do anything about it.

And it pleased him no end.

He could be as different as he wanted, and no one would bother him; except Angeal.

SOLDIER, however was a completely different matter. There were a fixed set of rules. Difference was appreciated, yes, but to a certain extent. Ordinary people like him could never bypass the rules to be as different as they wanted to be, but people like Sephiroth could.

It seemed too hollow now whatever they said back then; that they'd appreciate and encourage differences. He had tried to be different, to be who he really was, but every time, he found those rules, those chains holding him back, restricting him.

Maybe he wasn't all that different he believed himself to be?

He hadn't known the answer back then, but one thing changed it all.

The war.

That ugly side of humanity painted the truth in front of him with vivid, contrasting colors. Proving him that he was no different in black, white and red. He was just a SOLDIER, like many others who fought out there with him; millions of people who fought side by side, killing the enemies or being killed.

He was just a speck of dust among the many; a flimsy flame that were it to be extinguished, nothing would change; neither for the world, nor for the outcome of the war. It didn't even make a difference for those who knew him, too. Yes, it might sadden them for a period of time, but he knew that they'd overcome the grief, if there was any, and then move on. The time would dull the pain, and soon he would be so forgotten as though there never was a Genesis Rhapsodos.

He was surrounded by far too many people back then. By so many people that didn't know him, that didn't care for him.

Well, he never expected them to care, he hardly cared for someone else other than his own or Angeal, but back then he had needed it. As much as it hurt now to admit it, but maybe if someone was there to care for him, the outcome would have been different. Not that he wished it to be any other way than what it was now. He was completely satisfied with who he had become over the years, and he would never change it with anything else.

There was no use in showing others his pain, when no one noticed it. There was no use in showing others the pain they'd easily confuse with a fear of death, or being homesick, or whatever petty thing they thought was right. They didn't know him well enough to understand. Even Angeal was blind to it. The same person he thought knew him well enough to be the first one to question him about it. But even he seemed to be too wound up in the war. Maybe Angeal had the right. He couldn't have expected the man to act like that in such a situation.

So he hid it.

No one could understand it. No one could see what was wrong with him. But he knew. He knew what exactly was wrong. He had never wanted to be like them, but there he was, wearing the exact same uniform others wore, wielding the same weapons, following the same rules and tactics. And if he were to die, his name would be lost among the many others, forgotten amongst rows and rows of grey folders and tombstones.

But he had chosen the pain in order to survive. He wouldn't die there. He might not be different but he wouldn't die on those foreign battle grounds, among the many other bodies that fell to the ground, he would be among those who returned, scarred for a lifetime.

His hand clutched at his shoulder, feeling the hot viscous pulsing out of the wound with every throb of his heart. He closed his eyes.

Why had these thoughts come back to him now? Why now that he was at his weakest? Wasn't he?

So many things had been on his mind lately. He was experiencing a whirlwind of strong emotions that drained him both physically and mentally, but there was no stop.

Mostly it had been hatred, bitterness, anger, confusion.

And hurt, but he refused to admit. In fact there nothing remained of that feeling when he let the all consuming hatred overtake him.

People were blind. It had pained him at first that everyone, just everyone was blind. Maybe they saw them and the flaws, but chose to ignore them. It just made no difference. They wound up the same. All of them were so caught up in their petty lives that they hardly understood anything of what happened around them, of even the most blatant lies that Shin-Ra fed them. They accepted everything, everything as long as their peaceful meaningless lives remained the same.

How could people be so blind? How could they be so blind for years and years on end and then claim that they lived happily ever after? Didn't they think? Didn't they just have brains?

Even Angeal talked about pride and honor, about having dreams. But had the thought never occurred to him that what dreams should they have? Everything was temporary in this world. Even those goals, even wanting to become a hero was something short-lived. Everything was fleeting. Thus it never was worthy enough to lose a part of him for it. It was never worth changing himself to gain such a petty thing. Especially for those like him; happiness was just too much of a luxury.

He had thought that Angeal was different. Yes, his friend was far more open-minded than the rest of people were, he was far more attentive to what happened around them, but then again… Angeal was guileless. His friend was sincere and straightforward, he didn't wear masks like him and Sephiroth did. The raven haired man could sense what was wrong with him since he had known him for years, but if he acted good enough, if he chose the most immaculate mask, even he could be fooled.

It pained him just as much as it pleased him. It pained him that if he chose, no one would ever know who the real Genesis Rhapsodos was. Not even his best friend.

He couldn't afford listening to Angeal's words anymore. They seemed to exist only in fairy tales now, in children stories where everything had a happy ending. In the real world, there were no happy endings, there was no value to moral and all those things if someone was to delve deep enough. Everything was just a disguise; a disguise so that humans could live together without feeding on each other. Such things weren't meant for them. They fought wars, they thrived on spilling blood, on death. Morals, Dreams, Honor… they weren't meant for deadly killers like them. His raven haired friend saw the world in a way it never was, it never would be as long as these people remained the same. It was too optimistic; far too optimistic to be real. How could his friend not notice the reality when it was looking him in the face? Wasn't what they lost back at war enough? Wasn't the price enough for them to see it?

It seemed it wasn't. Because if it was, he wouldn't have opened his eyes to the truth only recently.

It hurt to see his best friend among those he was starting to hate. It hurt to see that even his only friend couldn't see it. He thought that he had let the man know enough about him, that he had at least one person in the whole world whom he could come back to, whom he could rely on. It hurt so badly when that even that one person didn't understand his pain; didn't even see it. He had been wrong. He had sacrificed parts of himself, letting the man see it there and now… It hurt, because even his friend didn't know him. Now he regretted it. Or didn't he?

A lonely tear trailed down his face, shortly followed by another.

He wasn't crying for anything. He wasn't crying for anyone.

He was crying for his old dead self. That Genesis Rhapsodos everyone knew was dead. Seeing that no one knew him, seeing the real acrid truth, he decided to go away, further and further away, until he faded, until he was nonexistent. It was somber. He was far too naïve, far too innocent. This world never deserved such a virtue. Yes, he was mourning for the part of him he buried with his own two hands, a part of him that he sacrificed all too willingly. He was mourning for the beautiful brilliant child who thought he was the best and luckiest kid on Gaia, who wanted to let Angeal see what was really there, who wanted to become a hero and would give anything, anything, to become one.

It would make no difference. Everyone was far too blind to notice it. It would make no difference because even already no one knew him anymore. It made a slight difference to him. It was saddening but he knew that eventually, it would be a beginning for something important.

It would be last of his tears, because from now on, he wouldn't be the same person. He would never let the world see him like this. Indeed, he had too much pride.

Harshly wiping those tears away, he stood up, turning on the shower.

A sneer contorted his face as crystalline droplets ran down his body, tainted by fresh carmine.

Tainted.

Poison.

It was meaningless. It was pointless. The life that used to bedazzle him, his past self, now held no color for him. It was just grey, ashen, rotten, decayed. Living, even breathing was a hard thing to do. Every intake of breath seemed to sap his energy so that by midday he was already drained.

Yet, even sleep couldn't cure him.

With SOLDIER casting him aside since that training, he would sleep for more than twelve hours, but wake up tired. And again he would sleep, at least as a means of passing time, but to no avail.

How could a small wound be a trigger for what had been happening to him?

Questions.

It seemed there was no point of equilibrium for him. It was either somnolence or insomnia. His sleep, despite being dreamless, his body was asleep, his mind an empty void, not haunted by questions or nightmares.

Insomnia was different. Insomnia was living hell.

He would lie on his bed, tossing and turning in sheets so that maybe, just maybe sleep would overtake him. But he had no such luck. He would lie there, motionless for hours and hours, staring at the ceiling.

Yes, the questions. They had started since he tried to perceive the world around him, when he started to build his worldviews, his individual point of view. There had been always a few which were left unanswered, which he was hopeful to find an answer for as he grew up, but there always remained a few that always haunted him.

Now, after all these years, he was there, doubting everything. It seemed that every answer he had found for those questions were wrong. Utterly and terribly. And it had hit him full force.

How could he be wrong about so many things? How could a man his age do everything wrong for twenty years?

His grasp in the auburn hair tightened, twisting the short tresses around his hand in silent agony.

It wasn't the physical pain that made him grit his teeth. _"No," _he thought, a smirk marring his features. He was far too numb to react this way to physical pain. It ran deeper, just too deep. It was mental. It was the questions that overloaded his mind, it was that pain that made him hiss, that made him clutch at his head in a vain attempt to tear his mind out. Not to think just for once.

There just seemed to be no answer. No matter how hard he tried, no matter whom he asked, there was just no answer. Even his Goddess was silent.

His Goddess was always silent. Always. On those nights when he woke up from nightmares, drenched in cold sweat, shaking with genuine terror, question after question, deed after deed kept flooding his mind, his bedroom a silent court martial; even on the nights when he prayed, pleaded, asked, begged, ready to fall on his knees in front of whatever deity who was there, for it to just stop. Just Stop and let him have some moments of fleeting peace! But there was no answer, there was no peace, not even when he broke down, letting everything go, his pride crushed in front of his eyes like the shards of the looking glass, not even when he crumbled in the middle of his room, with tears running down his face. There was no answer when he was choking on his own sobs so that no one could hear, when he bit his lip, his hand until they bled so that the scream that threatened to break free never passed his lips.

No one heard silent pleas. His silent words always fell on deaf ears.

Everyone was blind to his pain. No one shared his misery. No one endured this hell. When his Goddess was so blind not to notice him, how could he expect others to be any different? How could he expect Angeal to see it, when he was becoming a master at playing games, at acting?

It was when the first rays of sun had lit his room that the realization dawned on him.

He was astonished, his mind and body paralyzed.

His mind was completely blank, like a plain white screen.

Slowly, very slowly the corners of his lips stretched into a genuine smile. He rose to a sitting position.

He had known he was different. He knew it from the very beginning.

And the world had tried to stop him; had tried to corrupt him like it did others. And it had been close.

But not close enough.

His smile widened as he stood up, nearing his full-length mirror. His eyes were shining with a new fire, a new light. If there was anyone there to see his face, they would have mistaken him for a madman, because even he could sense it, the darkness, the malevolence hidden underneath that simple facial expression. He threw his head back, laughing, the act was so genuine that the sound was almost foreign, almost wrong. So insane.

But he had never felt so right, so sane.

It felt like for twenty years he had been living with his eyes closed. For twenty years he had been wasting his life, living how others, how the world thought was right.

But nevermore.

People were afraid of pain, they were afraid of everything, even their own shadow. So, they chose to be blind, chose to be deaf, so that they couldn't neither see, nor hear, so that they'd be trapped in their heaven version of world they built in their minds, in their dreams, so that they couldn't see the truth no more. He would never let them blind him again. He would never let them cut his wings now that he could see the truth.

Truth was his wings.

He had known it from the beginning that he was different from those blind mindless sheep. He had never fit in their system, had never believed in what they did. And now, he didn't fit in their world.

Not that he wanted to.

His smirk stretched into a smirk. Bitterness rising up his throat.

He hated everything; the air that he breathed in, the water he drank, everything. It was so rotten, so _tainted_ that it felt like poison, its taste like acrid venom on his tongue. Humanity was the taint, the poison that had been running in his veins for far too long. He hated all of them, every single human being, this life and their petty world. He hated them because they had been the ones who had held him back, who had blindfolded him with their web of lies and half-truths, who had threw him in their filthy abyss of their pitiful lives and goals.

He had paid the price for their selfishness. He wasn't willing to sacrifice anything for them anymore.

He was different from all of them, and he was willing to pay whatever the price was. He'd rather be called insane, he'd rather being an outcast than being one of them, he'd rather being a monster.

He didn't belong.

And he reveled in it.


	2. Sacrifice II

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.

Summary: Changes do not happen overnight, especially when it comes to a person, a set of beliefs that were ingrained in you since birth, a personality. They are not without a cost either. There are always things that should be sacrificed.

**Warning: **Rated M just to be safe.

Author note: I decided to leave this story incomplete because sometimes strange ideas pop up in my head. I guess I'll write whatever came to my mind here. We'll see how it turns out…

Enjoy!

**ΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤΤ**

It was late, a few hours past midnight. The spacious SOLDIER lounge was unusually crowded with SOLDIERs.

He didn't know why he had come here in the first place. Maybe he wanted to prove it to himself, his innocent self; the difference between them and himself. Their world was entirely different from his.

They were chattering, laughing carefree, alcohol making everything fade in the background. They didn't want to think all the time, it was a time to let everything go; reasoning, thinking, deciding, choosing... To hell with everything. They didn't even care to acknowledge him when they saw him.

Why he had sat among them, he didn't know, or at least didn't want to think about. They were talking about their lives, their petty lives. One was talking about some girl he had fallen in love with.

Love? What was love? Some delusion, some reason that made their lives livable. Once the passing of time unveiled the truth, they'd face it. He didn't know what love really was, but whatever it was, he knew that it couldn't be what they called love. Something to fall out of only because of time did him no good. It was but an illusion, some lie to fool himself with. He was no fool and never wished to be one.

The other one was talking about his life, his problems, that he wished to have more money and become popular just like him. He says this and his face reddens, a big grin breaking on his lips.

He was disgusted and at the same time, curious. 'Why do you want to become popular like me?' he had asked. He should have known the answer.

What he had said was beyond disgusting. He said that he wanted to become popular like him because he would be surrounded by too many people who'd love him, who'd do anything for him and also lots of girls.

All of them were grinning from ear to ear, all of them agreeing with those words.

He was smiling. He was smiling but no one could understand what it meant; no one could see the dangerous part of him rise, craving to be unleashed. He had done nothing. He had just gripped his glass harder, gritting his teeth, seething silently.

Why did they know? How did those imbeciles dared say those things when they knew nothing about him, nothing about what he had been through? They thought he had reached where he was by sitting back and ordering others around? He had tried, harder than Sephiroth himself, to become who he was now. He had gone through eight years of war, gone through years of experimentation to become who he was, not by wasting his time fooling around. In fact, he had grown up way sooner than all those around him.

Popularity, on the other hand, was a different matter. Despite the appearance of things, despite being surrounded by too many people all the time, he was very alone. He was alone and no number of people could make him feel something. More than anything else, he liked his space, he liked his solitude. Popularity meant the exact opposite. Popularity meant people always poking their noses in your life. Popularity meant people expecting you to live up their dreams. It meant expectations; it meant standing by and watching as those filthy thieves pick at the crumbled ruins of your life, watching those vultures eat your life piece by piece.

They knew nothing about him. And he liked it to stay that way. As long as the acting didn't ruin his life, didn't take him away from himself, he was willing. Let them assume whatever they wished, it only served him better. It only made him more disgusted, it made him more inhuman.

He was very different from them.

Alcohol was their freedom, even though momentary.

He was way past that point. Alcohol did him no good anymore. It only cleared his mind, added to his bitterness, fueled his anger, his pain. To him, alcohol was a bitter reminder of whatever he wished to forget just like those under his command, but he couldn't.

He stood up without saying another word, choosing an isolated booth.

His lips twisted into a grimace, his hold around the fragile item tightening. No, he wouldn't become someone like them. He was different. He wouldn't change that for anything.

Forgetting, much like other things, was too much of a luxury for those like him. Well, he was a monster after all. He had to remember, he had to remember everything; whatever he had read in those files, whatever was done to him in the name of science, in the name of whatever those humans cherished. Money? God? Love? Humanity? What was it? He didn't care. He had fought humans' wars for too long. He had fought for something that wasn't there for too long. He had to remember the years he wasted trying to be what he wasn't from the beginning.

He was no human. He was a monster.

Azure was burning with an intense fire. Like a predator searching for its prey, he was looking around, searching for anything unfortunate enough to bring his wrath upon.

His mind was playing delicious tricks on him. No one was aware of the dangerous monster that lurked here, completely concealed by the darkness. No one was aware of how much he desired spilling their blood, of how erotic it was their wriggling were he going to strangle them.

There was only one thing on his mind; destroy.

No one could see that feral smile on his lips that was breaking into a wolfish, sadistic grin.

There was a crunch as glass shattered in his closed fist. He looked at his hand, watching it experimentally, like a child would watch something new.

What was this feeling? In no way was it ache or pain.

He tightened his fist. He could sense it as glass tore through flesh, but there was no pain. There was a bizarre feeling for more. He wanted more blood, more of his own blood. Why wasn't it sickening? Did he enjoy his own pain? Was he becoming masochistic?

A bar maid that rushed to his table broke him out of his daze, but even then he just watched her before standing up and pushing her aside. Whatever she said fell on deaf ears. He needed no help, and she was in no place to help him to begin with.

Opening his hand, he took out the shards watching the bloody mess with barely concealed want.

He had felt like this before, numerous times on battlefield, whenever the battle took over. He didn't even know what he was doing at those times, there was only one color and its shades that drowned him; crimson. He only saw his sword rise and fall, saw the wild spray of carmine droplets that drenched him like rain, smelled the intoxicating scent of blood.

Later, he would remember; later, he would see the faces; mouths agape in cries that never passed them, shouts, begs, everything. He would remember everything to the smallest bit of detail. He would remember the heartlessness, he would see how frighteningly it was the way he had killed them, how sickening it was that feeling.

Now he understood why. Now he knew why he had felt sickened by his delight back then. He was sickened because no human being would kill like that, even if his life was threatened, let alone enjoy doing it. He was sickened because at that time he thought he was a human being, he thought that despite all those very significant differences, there was still some humanity left in him, that there was a slight hope that one day he'd be a human.

He had been terribly wrong and he had paid the price.

The door to his own apartment closed with a hiss behind him as he leaned against it.

Instantly all those masks that were crushing him were gone. It was so overwhelming, the other part of himself that he had discovered a few days ago; what it promised, what it spoke of. It was freedom.

Bringing his hand to his lips, he licked the viscous liquid hesitantly, tasting it. Why was it so good? Soon he was sucking, unable to let go. Why was it so addictive?

Wasn't it madness?

He smiled as he let go of his hand, his lips bloodied. Was he going mad? What was madness in the first place? But how was it possible? He couldn't remember a moment were he could think as clearly as he did now, just as rationally as he did now.

"Stop this..." He clutched at his head, walking to the bathroom.

Questions kept overloading his mind to a point where he just stood in front of the mirror, doing nothing, seeing nothing as questions drowned him.

Whatever greeted him from the mirror was nothing like the past Genesis Rhapsodos, it was someone new, someone more dangerous, more enigmatic.

Just as enigmatic as Sephiroth, but did this mean that Sephiroth was a monster from the very beginning?

No, it wasn't possible. If he was a monster, how could he follow Shin-Ra's orders? How could he silently obey?

His hands were shaking on the ceramic sink, his head bowed.

What if he was wrong? What if he was really insane? What if he was just a human pretending to be a monster? Why would a human want to pretend to be something so... so... gruesome? Horrible? What?!

He clasped a hand on his mouth, watching his reflection in the mirror with wide eyes. Did Genesis Rhapsodos crave attention so much that he'd pretend being a monster? Who was Genesis Rhapsodos? Who was he?

There was no mirror anymore. He sat down, leaning to the cold tile floor among the shards.

He had options. He could really choose from them for the first time in his life and it was just him that mattered now. He would accept whatever were the consequences.

Playing with a shard in his hand, playing with his own life, it was all that he really had, all that he was willing to sacrifice. He could easily take his own life. He'd rather lose his life, than lose his individuality. It was his life, his and only his. Whenever he wanted, he could just let go. A misstep, an misplaced blow, an awkward lunge or just a bullet, and it would be over. But it was still too soon, wasn't it? He had just opened his eyes to the truth, wasn't it too soon to die? Wasn't it another thing to their benefit if he just killed himself? It would be ridding them of the future problem he'd most likely become in the next few weeks, wasn't it?

No. He would not do that. He wouldn't let them benefit more than this. He would never be someone else's puppet from now on. He would become the very source of sorrow for those humans. He would make them regret whatever they did in the past. However there was no use in regretting what they couldn't undo. They couldn't undo him now; not now that he knew everything.

Sadism and masochism, pain and pleasure, sanity and insanity, they were just human creations. Whenever they found something they couldn't explain or admit, they'd just put a label on it to define it; to hold back any unwanted question. It was all biased. No one understood that there was no difference between all those opposites. It was a matter of perspectives. But if you were to look from above, or if you were so far gone, you'd see no differences. They were one and the same.

It was what that part of him promised. Living free of all those chains and shackles humans so insisted on wearing. They were suffocating him for too long. It was time to break free.

His monstrosity was his truth and truth would set him free.


End file.
